Time To Rise
by geekybeeks
Summary: When the Princess can no longer dismiss King Logan's cruelty as wild rumours it is time for her to rise against her brother and lead the rebellion Albion has been waiting for.
1. Prologue: The Dream

Disclaimer: Fable is owned by Lionhead Studios, not me.

Rated M for Adult Themes that will be more prominent in future chapters.

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><p><strong>Prologue: The Dream<strong>

_Darkness. Total absence of light. Shapeless, yet somehow, solid. _

"Anne..."

_She heard it call to her in a voice filled with such venom that it made her name sound like an insult. There was no discernible threat in this darkness but somehow she _felt_ in the inky void that a pain beyond her imaginings waited for her. And so she ran. Chased. Pursued. Hunted. It stalked her through the corridors of Bowerstone Castle; her only home in the 19 years since her birth._

_Anne's long legs had begun to burn from the exertion; she felt as though she'd been running for hours. Still, it followed through the twists and turns of the hallways as though it knew them as well as she. It seemed faster now, somehow, and in her haste to escape it she forgot to look where she was going. Suddenly she tripped on the steps in the throne room. Her breath was painfully knocked out of her lungs as she collided with the plush carpet. _

_Anne knew she was trapped, but still she struggled to get up. She was the daughter of the old Hero Queen and she would not die laying down. She reached out a shaking hand for the throne, grabbed hold of its armrest, and pulled herself up. She was barely back on her feet when she felt icy tendrils of blackness snaking up her legs and arms. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out as the crushing darkness enveloped her._

Anne sat up in bed with a gasp as she always did when the dream came. Her black eyes darted wildly around the dimly lit room searching the familiar silhouettes: the couches, table, chairs, piano, and other furnishings that adorned her room, until she was satisfied that the living darkness had not followed her into the waking world. She heaved a sigh of relief as her long, slender fingers relaxed their grip on the luxurious sheets she only just realized she was clutching. Anne knew that sleep would not come again, for her blood was still singing with adrenaline from the dream. She needed comfort that one thing could provide.

Before she could think too much on her actions, Anne was out of bed and grabbing her nearby crushed velvet robe. Without pausing or slowing her pace, she hastily threw it on over her gauzy shift and threaded her arms through the sleeveless arm holes, not bothering with the laces. She silently let herself out of her room through the moonlit garden, her slippered feet carrying her down a path she knew by heart. She paused in front of the heavy oak door, behind which lay her destination. She eased the door open and looked around to ensure she hadn't attracted any unwanted attention before slipping stealthily into the room.

Once the door was quietly shut, Anne leaned back against the cool wood and took in her surroundings. Her eyes wandered through the small room and finally rested on the bed that stood in the centre of the room. She smiled to herself as she gazed on the sleeping occupant: a rather handsome young man. The moonlight streaming from the window offered ample light to study him by: his lean arms were tucked behind his head, which his dark brown hair was matted against; his full lips were curved slightly upward in a lopsided smile, and his toned chest peeked out from under the covers.

Anne gently seated herself on the bed next to the prone figure and softly trailed her fingertips along his bare flesh. Her dark eyes took on a mischievous and calculating gleam as he stirred under her touch. Her hands left his body and came to rest on the bed on either side of him for support as she slowly lowered her face closer to his. She softly kissed up his neck and along his jawline working her way closer to his mouth. Once there she let her mouth hover over his; their lips barely grazing. She could feel his breath on her face grow more laboured but still he did not wake.

"Elliot," she whispered, her voice filled with a growing urgency, as she pressed her silken lips firmly against his.

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><p>AN: This is the first fanfic I've shared in a public forum and I really hope you enjoyed it. I had more written for this scene but decided that this was the best ending point. Any feedback would be much appreciated in either review or PM.<p> 


	2. Chapter One: The Rebel Princess

Disclaimer: Fable is owned by Lionhead Studios, not me.

AN: Sorry it took so long to get this up. What I had written just wasn't working so I scrapped it and started over. Okay a few things, I added Ben Finn as a secondary character because there will be a pairing with him and Anne later. This chapter takes place in the Hole next will be Mourningwood. I was on the fence about writing the dog, let me know what you think.

Enjoy and please review. :)

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><p><strong>Chapter One: The Rebel Princess<strong>

_Elliot._

She could still feel the soft velvet of his lips as surely as if he had just kissed her. But he hadn't and never would again. Anne struggled not to cry out from the pain that tore through her heart. It had been over nine months since that last day in the castle but any time she thought of Elliot it all came rushing back as if it had just happened yesterday.

_The feel of his warm hand tenderly gripping hers as he escorted her into the castle. His hesitation at letting go as she stepped forward to face her cruel brother. How his sweet brown eyes shined with tears as he begged her to take his life..._

Anne was jerked suddenly out of her thoughts by the feeling of a cold, wet nose gently nudging her hand. She looked down at the fawn coloured boxer, his face full of worry, and couldn't help but wonder at how he always seemed to know her thoughts.

"Okay, Wolsey" she said, forcing a small smile, "I'll get up."

Anne rolled off the thin cot that barely afforded any cushioning from the cold, hard ground; a fact her aching body made sure she stayed painfully aware of.

"Last time I sleep in a bloody cave," she muttered under her breath as she stretched to alleviate the cries of her overworked muscles.

Anne heard a pained groan behind her and turned her head to look. Her dark eyes filled with concern as she took in the sight of her grey-haired mentor mumbling in his sleep. Since the crash of the monorail cable car yesterday, she and Walter had spent hours fighting through the seemingly endless waves of hobbes in this Light-forsaken hole. When she nearly collapsed from exhaustion Walter insisted they make camp and rest despite his intense dislike of caves.

If Anne was smarting this badly, how must he feel when he lacked her youth and Heroic healing ability? No doubt they would have to fight their way through more hobbes before reaching their destination. Would he make it?

Anne shuddered as it dawned on her that Walter could very well die fighting at her side. She had never thought of the possibility of his death before and the thought chilled her to the bone. Walter was more than a mentor, he was as much her father as the man who died before she could walk. She shook her head, as though the act could chase away the thought that terrified her more than anything. Standing there, watching Walter sleep in a dank hole that reeked of... well... she didn't want to know but it wasn't pleasant, she realized, perhaps for the first time, just how much she needed him.

Anne's eyes snapped to the shadowy entrance of the cavern as she drew her pistol, aiming where she'd heard scuffling steps. Wolsey let out a low growl that affirmed her suspicions, something was close and it wasn't friendly. She silently crouched, keeping her eyes and pistol trained on the entrance, and reached out her free hand to shake Walter awake. Her hand found nothing but empty air. Wolsey's growl was enough to pull the veteran soldier from what had appeared to be a deep, if troubled sleep; to his feet, sword drawn and waiting.

Walter gave her a wordless nod, signalling his readiness. The right corner of Anne's mouth curled up into a confident smile as she squeezed the trigger of her pistol twice in rapid succession. The groan and thud that soon followed affirmed that her bullets had found their target.

Their position known, the hobbes abandoned their cautious approach charged their targets. Able to see her enemies now, Anne shot with greater precision and downed three hobbes with head shots before having to reload. Walter and Anne fell easily into a routine that made quick work of the hobbes who tried, and failed, to surround them. She would empty rounds into the hobbes with rifles first, then the bloody wizards that annoyed her to no end; meanwhile Walter's sword sliced cleanly through any hobbe that got within its reach. Wolsey played his part too, viciously attacking the throats of any downed enemies.

"We make quite a team, don't we?" Walter said when the last of the hobbes lay dead at their feet, his voice filled with pride at his protégée's growing prowess in combat, "It was just like fighting by your mother's side."

Anne basked in his approval and set about brushing the dirt and grime off her clothes as best she could, examining them for any damage as she went.

Her cream coloured cotton shirt and the simple brown corset she wore over it had a few small tears from axe wielding hobbes that got too close for comfort, nothing too serious though. The shorts she had procured at the quaint tailor shop in Brightwall were in pretty good condition, aside from the distinct smell of whatever foul liquid she had swam through earlier to get around the force field that damn Hobbe had summoned. Her legs, bare under the shorts, still showed some hints of bruising from few hits one of the smaller hobbes had landed with its club before she picked up the little pest by its ears and drop kicked it into oblivion. The damage could've been much worse were it not for the coverage provided by her sturdy boots from that distasteful disguise she wore when infiltrating the mercenary camp.

Satisfied that the state of her clothing wouldn't invoke more than mild consternation from Jasper, Anne smoothed her hands over her wide brown belt that hung slanted across her hips; her long fingers lovingly caressed the metal grip of the pistol safely housed in the holster attached to her belt.

"If you're quite done making pretty," Walter said, giving the princess a sidelong glance, "We should get going."

Anne heaved an exaggerated sigh of exasperation as she followed her mentor out of the cave.


End file.
